


Sum of All Parts

by Zhanna0717



Series: Echoes Half-Heard [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-03 18:06:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8724685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhanna0717/pseuds/Zhanna0717
Summary: In theory, she aught to have witnessed the proceedings at the Conclave and returned to her Clan with much needed answers. In theory, even when that went wrong she aught to have been able to slip away, talk her way out of it. That was what she knew how to do. But theory fell painfully short of the reality. A reality that smelled of smoke and charred bone, for her, and her captors.
A collection of various moments - before, during and after DAI - of Inquisition characters I ended up writing and not using for the main story or while I was stuck on a chapter. Most of it isn't a retelling of events/scenes in the game, but random moments exploring the characters' personalities, their respective reactions to certain events and/or backstories.





	1. Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> Surely the Herald's awakening after escaping the fade at the beginning of DA:I entailed something more than just the opening scenes of the game. This was a scene aimed to introduce Etain Lavellan's personality, her way of seeing the world around her, her way of thinking. It was also a perfect chance to explore Etain and Cullen's initial interaction and their first impressions of each other.

    The pain had disappeared to the periphery. All that reigned was a strange state of absentminded stillness; of nothing but existing with barely an awareness of it. Her senses took their time to return to normal function, and it felt like she was floating underwater, upside down and blindfolded.

  
    Distant, muffled sounds turned into drips and far removed voices. Her eyes opened with far more effort than expected, only to see nothing but darkness. It must have been night?

  
    Her hand clumsily reached out and slapped against a cold stone wall.

  
     _What_ … She frowned at where her hand aught to be, but she couldn’t see it. Her fingers ran along the stone to feel the texture, the seams, the cracks. Blocks. She was inside a building.

  
    Her hands abandoned the wall and felt the humble straw mattress she was laying on. It was on the floor. Smelled stale. Rough fabric. Not an inn.

  
    The air reeked of potent medicinal concoctions and mold. _She_ smelled like, well, a prisoner. She almost preferred the mold.

  
    So far, she guessed she was in a dark cell, with no way to tell the passing of time, but at least the captors had the decency to put her in the driest one. She must have been hurt or injured, but not severely to warrant better hospitality. Nor was she out long, considering the pace of her body and mind’s recovery. No serious damage upstairs then. No broken bones. Definitely a few bruises.

  
    Tired of seeing nothing, she closed her eyes and tried to think coherently. The room still felt like it was tilting ever so slightly - just enough to be irritating, though no longer debilitating. It must have been a day since she first regained consciousness.

  
    In the hours she was awake, no one came but the guards. She asked simple questions, spoke in Common. Spoke in Orlesian. All to no avail. She could hardly get more than her location - Haven- and a ration of bland broth to slurp up in the dark.

  
    They appeared periodically just to ensure she wouldn't do anything foolish. Not that she could, in the state she was in. Her senses were still fuzzy at best, and came back seemingly one at a time for a while after she woke. She was starting to think the concoction she smelled wasn’t for her wellbeing.

  
_Which means they think I am a danger. Why? Who are **they**?_

  
    So she waited, in a fluctuating state of panic and apprehension, conjuring up any possible scenario and escape plan her mind could think of. Sooner or later, her captors were bound to speak with her, or take her elsewhere. And maybe, if she was fortunate enough, she would find out what happened. For if she still retained her sanity, all that she remembered must have been a product of one hell of a twisted nightmare.

  
    An explosion… tripping and stumbling through charred ruins, dirt and clouds of dust. Bodies. Smelling smoke, burning flesh and wood and cloth, and the scent of something else she couldn’t place. The eeriness of hearing the world burn, without a human sound anywhere. No screams, no pleas, no cries. Not a sign of life.

  
    She remembered climbing the stairs. And then… something behind her. Chasing… then… then…?

  
    The heavy footfalls coming from somewhere nearby contrasted with that of the guards she had heard in the last few hours. Those were heavily armed foot soldiers. Trained, but not well enough for the armor to be an extension of their bodies instead of extra weight to lumber about. These steps were more ‘natural’ but still heavy: the efficient stomp of a lifelong soldier, more comfortable in battle-gear than anything else. Maybe better armor, less extraneous pieces, by the sound of it.

  
    She waited motionlessly, anxious for what could be next. Light spilled into the cell, painting shadows across the walls.

  
    A new voice spoke after a few moments of staring into the darkness wordlessly. “Do you have a name?”

  
    A man. Fereldan. Not that that was anything different or surprising.

  
    “Yes.” She said, voice hoarse from disuse. She gauged her surroundings while there was light; a below-ground prison. Bars and all.

  
    The man stood in silence, not pleased with her answer. She stood up from the bedding, cautiously, unsure as to why her body felt utterly drained and weighted down. She threw out an arm to brace herself against the wall, head swimming.

  
    “Where do you hail from?” His voice almost served as an anchoring point, and she focused on its source to keep herself level.

  
    “A nomadic clan in the Free Marches.” She answered, assessing the interrogator.

  
     _Mythal save me, I am in deep shit_. Her eyes confirmed what her ears presumed; a knight, high ranking and well trained by the stance. Sword and shield. He looked weary and suspicious, with a hard, uncompromising intelligence in his eyes. Scar above the lip. _How odd_. The armor is scratched and scuffed in places, but clean. _Too clean. Meticulous, practical soldier then. Certainly someone in command, someone who breathes authority, instead of trying too hard to sound like it…_ That made the situation all the more bleak.

  
    No symbols or ornaments or markings told her who he was, though. Until she caught a glimpse of the flaming sword on the vambrace as he moved his hands.

  
    Etain’s fingertips curled into the spaces between the stones, a cold sweat drenching her. Her pulse raced with fear, adrenaline flooding into her bloodstream. She grit her teeth and reminded herself to remain levelheaded. It was proving far too difficult to do, given she hardly had a recollection or understanding of what had happened.

  
    “Why are you here?” He rumbled, hands clasped one over the other on the pommel of his sword. It was a silent reminder he was ready to run that metal through her the second she stepped out of bounds.

  
     _Grim_ was the word to describe him. The mere possibility of him being a Templar was unsettling enough, but this accusing glare of his, and her present predicament, told her she had done something. Or rather, they thought she had done something.

  
    “Same reason most everyone was here for.” Etain’s skin was prickling with needles, eyes locked onto the man. She was thankful for the dimness of the underground cells, he would have a harder time reading her if she used it to her advantage. She remained in the space between darkness and light. Enough for him to see her, not enough to catch any minute tells her face could show in her anxious state.

  
    “To witness the proceedings at the Conclave, and then prepare for the consequences.” She continued, cutting off whatever scathing remark the Templar had in store for her evasive answers. She wanted to throw question after question at him and demand answers, but he obviously thought she was in no place to ask anything.

  
    “Were you alone? Did you have any accomplices?”

  
    “Accomplices?” Lavellan cocked her head to the side quizzically. “To what?”

  
    “Answer the question.”

  
    “I had no ‘accomplices’, nor was I alone. I came to the Conclave as a guest of a Nevarran merchant family with strong ties to the nobility. My clan has traded with them for years, and a friendship of sorts has been established. I accompanied them as an attache, considering the rebellions have been disrupting our trade and infringing on the Dalish.”

  
    He thought for a fleeting moment, honey-brown eyes moving minutely as they scoured the blood writing on her face. “What position do you hold in your clan?”

  
     _The fucking Wolf has caught my scent_. Etain ground her teeth and inhaled deeply.  

  
    “Agent. Information broker. Spy. Take your pick.”

  
    “And you would admit that?”

  
    “Why would I hide it? It’s not as if you haven’t come to the same conclusion.” Etain held the Templar’s gaze. She hadn’t lied, nor did she plan to. It didn’t mean she would hand herself over on a silver platter, though. Spy was the most logical assumption given the facts: a Dalish elf, fully versed in common tongue and human customs, accompanying merchants without being a servant, a guard, or a Circle mage? What other verdict could the shemlen possibly come to? It was the truth, at least in part. Lavellan just avoided the _mage_ and _First_ parts.

  
    “It would be easier to count how many foreigners at the Conclave are not spies. I was there only to observe. I am not infringing on any political agreements…” She trailed off, unsure if whatever happened at the Conclave somehow rendered that statement false.

  
    The man was an immovable statue. Etain was panicking internally at the thought of being a captive of the Templars, but violence or resorting to shouting and threats and outright attack would only muddle the situation. Besides, Keeper Deshanna would be appalled if she resorted to such things in a situation that wasn’t lost.

  
    It didn’t mean she hadn’t reflexively picked out potential weak spots in his armor. Not that that would be necessary. His neck was exposed. His legs were not armored. Having no weapon made it difficult for either to be an option. There was always the alternative of ramming his head against the wall. Or choking him. Magic would make quick work of him, though she did not know the strength of his abilities to disrupt hers. Neither could she guess how many more like him waited at the end of the hall.

  
    “What would you have done with what you learned?” He interrupted her chain of thought.

  
    Etain frowned. _That’s a bullshit question. He’s just passing time. Asking me open ended questions to get me to talk to him. Trying to catch me in a lie or admitting something inadvertently._

  
    “Protect ourselves. Avoid the areas more prone to clashes. Reevaluate our networks and decide where to switch focus and divert resources, if need be. All of which you could easily deduce.” She felt a growing strain in the joints and muscles of her left arm, without any memory of an injury. “Ask the questions you actually seek the answers to… _Ser_.”     

  
    He glowered at her with conviction. “How did you do it? Why?”

  
    “What are my accusations?”

  
    “Murder of Divine Justinia and the massacre of all those in presence at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

  
    The Dalish elf felt her lungs refuse to breathe and had to remind herself to do so. This was a ploy wasn’t it? What was the shemlen getting at?

  
    “Murder?” She croaked. “ _Massacre_? What does that mean- what happened at the Temple?”

  
    Dubious of her shock, his head dipped to the side as his brow furrowed. “How did you manage it?”

  
    “ _What do you mean massacre_?!” She seethed as she slid closer to the bars along the wall, braving the light. “The Divine?”

  
    “Her Holiness and all in the vicinity. Except you.” His tone was almost a snarl.

  
    “Everyone? How is that possible? There were so many people - and capable of defense and-“ Etain felt her frustration mount, along with the shock and grief. _Elodie_ … She almost spoke the name aloud and dug her hole a little deeper.

  
    “You tell me, apostate.”

  
    She froze in place, teeth all but crunching together. How did he know? She brought no staff with her, nor used her abilities in days. At least as far as she knew. “Interesting assumption.”

  
    “Established fact.”

  
    “Says the Templar?” She tried to keep her tone conversational, to keep the accusation out of it. She didn’t know if he was trying a tactic to get her to admit she was a mage, or if he was actually aware.

  
    A crackle echoed in the cell and a green light flooded her left side, cutting short whatever the man began to say. The pain that flushed through her left arm was as unexpected as the source of the strange light. Her face contorted into a pained frown, and she glared at her left palm in horror.

  
    “What is this?” She muttered, watching the scintillating light bleed from a small lesion. Her glance darted back to the Templar. He wasn’t watching her but was signaling something to the guards. He was unnerved but not nearly as much as he aught to have been. Not as much as she was. 

  
    “What did you do to me?” Etain frantically tried to dispel whatever magic was causing the thing to flare up. It didn’t work.

  
    The pain struck her quick as lightning and she screamed, doubling over and gripping her left wrist until her joints strained. Something was affecting her own body, something she had no control over. It was as horrifying as it was blindingly painful; as if her veins were setting fire and tearing through the flesh around it, as if her joints were slowly twisting full circle.

  
    She heard the cell door open and two guards entered, along with the Templar, who had his weapon drawn.

  
    “Do something!” She shouted at him. She couldn’t stop whatever was happening, but maybe his abilities could. Yet all he did was glare at her and frown.

  
    She couldn’t recall at which point her speech switched to elven, but it was a good thing the humans didn’t understand her words. The last thing she remembered, besides the agony, was the Templar, sword drawn but not directed at her yet. The sudden strike to the back of her skull rendered the world blurry like murky lake water before slipping into oblivion.


	2. Inauspicious Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan's harsh transition into the immediate aftermath of the Conclave.

Lavellan was hardly coherent when the guards came for her. Whatever happened to her left arm knocked her out cold, and shook her self-control. She woke to utter confusion, _again_ , and glared at her arm as the monstrosity it was. One twitch of a finger and surely the pain and the light would be back. 

She was awake no more than five minutes, and the gate to her cell screeched open again. The bulkier of the two guards barked directions at her with a dense Fereldan accent, while his accomplice jammed her wrists into handcuffs. What proceeded was an unpleasant experience, though not entirely foreign… But _this_ time felt worst of all because of the sheer heaviness of the situation. The consequences of her accusations. The simple fact that she was being interrogated by the Left and Right hands of the Divine was enough for her to feel blanketed by hopelessness. Not to mention the despair at the realization that she was the only survivor - that her mentor and her companions were probably little more than charred bone. 

No… This was no city guard matter she could weasel out of. 

Lavellan thought _the_ Templar was one grim specimen, but by the end of the interrogation she’d decided the Nevarran took the prize for menace. Seeker Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast. That woman had a way of making one taste metal without violence. And Etain was certain that she was about to find out what else she’d taste once the Seeker ran out of patience and words. Had it not been for the Spymaster, Lavellan may have ended up looking too much like pulp to even try and slip out of this. 

They were all in a panic, in a desperate situation Lavellan had yet to fully comprehend. For if what they told her was true - she may have just set foot into the shittiest trap in all of Thedas; about to have the murder of the Divine pinned on her, along with the massacre of everyone else at the Conclave, and the destruction of the infamous Temple of Sacred Ashes. 

She didn’t have long to deliberate, as Cassandra shoved her up and out of the dark chamber into the blinding light of the real world. 

The oppressive, unbridled green whorl that stretched down from the highest skies forced everything else out of Lavellan’s attention. The way it swirled and spewed rock was so unnatural and violent, it had to be some sort of illusion. Some sort of hallucination…

But it wasn’t, for Cassandra saw it too. As did the rest of the world. 

The Seeker explained the apparent connection of the mark on her hand to the cavernous breach in the sky, while Etain begged every fiber of her being to cooperate and regain a sense of self-control. What seemed to be her new reality made her want to scream and run until her lungs burst. But her body wouldn’t obey even if she tried, for she was petrified in fear, gaping at the sky. It was a feeling she hadn’t experienced for a long time: mind numbing, logic-crushing panic. Mythal only knew what gave her the strength to keep her shit together.

Lavellan inhaled a stinging lungful of cold air and finally forced her eyes away from the terror in the sky above. Her eyes didn’t want to look at her afflicted hand, nor did she want to acknowledge the memory of the light, strangely the same burst of blazing green as the Breach. It _was_ real. All of it. And there was no clean escape to this… She had little choice but to agree to the Seeker’s query, and begin to walk. 

The villagers outside the chantry Lavellan was imprisoned in were more than eager to stop in their tracks and glare murderously at her, or hurl a charming cacophony of curses as they made it out of the town, further into the valley. 

And now the she-dragon known as Cassandra was charging ahead of her through the snowed-in trail toward the temple. Or what was left of it at least.

Etain stumbled through the crisp drifts and icy rocks as nimbly as her agitated self could muster. Judging by how quickly her body had grown tired, she was far too wound up to focus on properly hiking through snow. How far were they going to go? What was at the forward camp? How many more times will her hand painfully seize up again? 

Lavellan hardly heard much of what Cassandra was saying, her thoughts jumbling amongst themselves, but tried as much as she could to answer coherently and keep the conversation going. It was a welcome distraction and it would hopefully work in her favor when dealing with her captors. 

Just when she began to regain some sort of aplomb, the bridge flashed in blinding white and the stones beneath their feet collapsed - sending her and Cassandra tumbling to the frozen river below like discarded marionettes. Cassandra raised herself up swiftly and stepped away from the rubble. 

Lavellan propped herself upright in time to hear the ice groan and rumble nearby, something bubbling up on the other side. The ice burst with a splash of frigid, dark water, birthing a hideous cloaked monstrosity from below. Cassandra launched herself into the attack without a shred of hesitation, commanding Etain to stay behind her. 

_Run! Now’s your chance!_ Etain’s consciousness hastily urged her on, but she remained and stared at the demonic creature swinging its disproportionately long limbs and claws at Cassandra. 

The second one set its sights on her, and Etain desperately cursed her circumstances for not having any weapons on her. The clunky beast of a staff that was among the strewn apart boxes and broken weaponry looked so dismal that Lavellan dared to think she might just fare better in a fist fight with the thing. 

She grabbed the staff regardless - a staff of a novice, unbalanced and unrefined. _Fucking figures_. Lavellan tried it out, letting loose a projectile of energy toward the demon, and another, and another. But the thing just kept coming, oozing black liquid in droplets from the wounds it didn't seem to feel. 

Etain shuffled back a few feet, shooting a few more surges before abandoning that tactic. Her own staff (the one that was left with Elodie's caravan) was fashioned to be used as a spear when she needed it. And gods, how she missed it, especially now. She shifted her hands to a more sturdy two handed grip and used the heavy, ungainly glob of metal at the end of the staff to bash against the creature's head. Then she spun around it and rammed the metallic end of the staff into its spine as hard as her body allowed it, bringing the demon down to the ice. One more powerful, hammer like blow to the back of its misshapen head and the thing dissolved into a black sludge at her feet. 

"Drop you weapon. NOW." Cassandra growled and aimed her sword at Etain.

Etain clenched her jaw and slowly lowered the staff. “Have it your way then,” she bit out, intending to drop the beastly staff. 

It was senselessness, even madness, to try and resort to violence against the Seeker. It would only land her in more trouble, whether or not she was successful in bringing her down. So she obeyed, and received a reasonable response from the woman. For the time being. 

They hiked and fought their way up through the mountain paths, heading higher and higher, closer and closer to the temple ruins. The nearer they got, the more oppressive the Breach grew, violent and all consuming. The fact that demons were currently more common than wild animals was no less disturbing. If that was a sign of what was to come, Lavellan regretted not making a run for it. She could make it back to her Clan, and Keeper Deshanna would be able to help with the wretched magic in her hand. So long as she was able to control it… 

If she wasn’t, Etain wouldn’t have returned home and put her family and Clan in danger. What she would do then, she wasn’t sure. 

_Chop it off?_ A nauseating thought. Highly unlikely. 

Cassandra called to her, bringing her out of the fog of her thoughts again. They were nearing the fighting; more soldiers and Conclave bystanders. 

Etain swallowed her anxiety, the thoughts of flight returning. She’d missed her chance - Cassandra was alone. Now, they were about to come up to more strangers, more of Cassandra’s compatriots. And if they were anything like this menacing Seeker and the Templar, then Lavellan truly was in deep shit. 

There was a thing - a glowing, writhing rift - in the middle of a ruined plaza, with a small group desperately fighting off the demons swarming it. Cassandra rushed into the plaza, throwing herself and her aid into the battle. 

For a fleeting moment, Etain was frozen in place. Wondering just how the hell her life went so horribly wrong that she’s in the cold mountains of a land she’d never been in, fighting demons and trying to somehow deal with this ‘Breach’. And her supposed murder of Divine Justinia, and Elodie, and everyone else at the Temple. 

She recognized she should have felt shame for her selfishness, focusing on her survival. Every single person fighting had their own lives to preserve, and others to protect. Cassandra for one, jumped in without hesitation to aid the others, yet there Etain stood. Afraid and nervous and regretful. 

So she pushed herself forward into the fray, fearing what was yet to come from this rift… From her decision not to run when she had the chance. 

But looking back on it, her worst fear came to life unexpectedly after the skirmish, when the elven stranger thrust her hand toward the rift. That was the absolute lowest point of that fateful day. A merciless gut punch to an already bruised body. 

Because it meant she was vital. She would not be able to hide behind the guise of insignificance, of powerlessness. She couldn’t blend in to the shadows and disappear back into her life; she’d be hunted down and forced into coercion. She’d become the most wanted weapon - or would it be key?- in these southern lands. 

It meant she could no longer be selfish; the remnants of her moral compass intact enough to make her feel accountable. It was no longer just her life she would worry about, but also those that she could have saved, or in the very least fought for, because she had the direct ability to make an impact. How she ended up with the _thing_ was a perturbing mystery, and the implications of its power were enough to make her feel nauseous. Compounded with the deaths of everyone at the Conclave, the chances of Lavellan’s freedom and return home were dismal. 


End file.
